A Study
by Cyclades
Summary: A loose representation of "A Study in Scarlet," and a 21st-century AU of multiple chapters. Will be H/W.


AN: Slash, 21st century AU fic. You've been warned. ^^

///

John H. Watson was hunched over his desk, the low desk-light in the darkness casting a halo on his gold-toned hair. His dismayed head rested on his folded arms, Gladstone the bull pup sniffing curiously at the young man's pant leg. The small dog looked curious, and if he were in possession of an intelligence beyond his species, he might have wondered if the open glare of the laptop had anything to do with his master's current state of mind.

It did. Levering himself up on his elbows, Watson took another incriminating look at his banking records. The digital face gazing back at him was not kind. Devastating, in fact, in its touch of sadistic coolness that often came with a reality check. Of course, the computer possessing any sort of insidiousness was only a product of his imagination. The numbers, however, were not.

"Dammit." The expletive escaped his lips in a sigh as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. He didn't know how it had come to this and yet he did. It was strange, when the gambling urge overtook him. He would lose himself completely to it, _give_ himself over. The feeling of certain uncertainty, the roll of an outcome that could mean anything and everything within the span of a few seconds, and, most of all, the way the Earth finally became mysterious when it took on that air of unpredictability… it was intoxicating. Unfortunately, when the unknown took on a face it was often an ugly one, and now Watson's finances would not sustain him the year.

Rather than swearing again (giving into his baser urges was what had gotten him into this mess) Watson picked up the small puppy whining at his feet. The small, wrinkly bundle wriggled happily as its belly was rubbed, and Watson found himself slightly soothed as he contemplated his options efficiently. He could ask for a loan… from whom? Not the bank; he couldn't afford to be in any more debt than he already was. He could drop out of medical and get a job, but only as a last resort. He was in his final year, after all, and he was useless if he wasn't doing what he loved.

As he closed out the page and shut down the device, Watson felt guilt drip like mercury into the pit of his stomach when he considered asking his family for a handout. His mother was long dead, and his father would inquire as to why he needed it, since Watson was supposedly living off the student aid he had received from his two years in the service.

He had never been close to his father nor his brother anyway, the former constantly worrying over the latter's general ineptitude and fluctuating cocaine addiction. So, no: a loan was not an option.

He relaxed further as he all but fell into bed, another option popping up like a secret of the future exposed in a pair of snake-eyes. His only choice, really: split his living expenses in half.

He needed a roommate.

///

Sherlock Holmes, as he was wont to do, blamed other sources for the disaster. If the equipment had been of a quality to withstand enthusiastic scientific exploration, had the students of the facility demonstrated more precise care when clearing away combustive residue, then perhaps one of the greatest treks into chemical criminology the laboratory had ever seen in its sad, weary existence would have taken place. He could not even begin to conceive that it was his own doing that caused the experiment to, quite literally and emphatically, blow up in his face.

Not that he was an insufferably arrogant individual (not anymore so than the average genius, anyway). He was merely innocent to the repercussions of his actions at times.

And instead of walking down the green, daisy-patterns slopes of virgin science, he was now making his way out of the police station after two hours of property damage summation. As it were, the Undiscovered Country would remain just that until he "repaid" eight thousand pounds to replenish assets incinerated and/or otherwise abused.

Holmes sighed theatrically. Despite his recently altered financial situation, the only matter he currently found of importance was the historical tragedy that is genius put-upon by commoners and their stifling, mundane societies.

Still. That genius would be threatened if he were to never again be allowed to experiment within the Cambridge student laboratories. Additionally, the situation would become even more repugnant if he were to be forced from the new lodgings he had acquired, ones he had found that not only served his needs but his particular tastes.

Holmes stepped up onto the lateral curb of Baker Street, said apartment laying in wait as if in silent appeal. As he methodically placed the key in the bolt mechanism, the dark-haired man made a list in his head, as he often did when faced with a situation that required organization of some kind. Except, unlike the ones he made instantaneously for ultimate effect of a solution against a problem, this one was childlike in its earnest simplicity.

One: Appeal to Dean of scientific research. Suspension is over-harsh punishment and should be rectified immediately.

Two: Re-grow eyebrows. Results will undoubtedly be aesthetically appealing if not alarmingly handsome.

Three: Find source of heat that will sustain carbonic hypothermic bursts intended to reveal evidential substances in fabric. Possible solution: Conclave that_ isn't _completely shotty.

Four: Find flatmate…

For Holmes' exceptionally keen mind had realized within two minutes of combusting all facial hair that that was what it would come to.

///

It was around one o' clock. London was flaunting an uncharacteristically low humidity on a fair day, and it seemed the majority of it's inhabitants were seizing the opportunity to walk unburdened by chill or umbrellas. However, in a small park off the Thames, only two of its two dozen occupants had any such complexion indicative of exposure to true sunlight, and one was now moving towards where the other lazed on a bench. Watson was absently chewing on his thumbnail and skimming through the personals when he heard his name being called.

"John? John Watson?" A vaguely familiar voice. When he took a few seconds to peer into the glaring sunlight, he began to recognize the red-headed, lanky young (one year older or one younger?) man before him.

"Henry? It's good to see you!" He jumped up to embrace the other. "How've you been?"

"Never better, just visiting the mam." Henry Stamford and Watson had been stationed together at one point, and Stamford was obviously not still living the enlisted life, if his hair and clothing were anything to go by. They spent a few minutes exchanging unavoidable pleasantries before settling into an old camaraderie as if it had never been set aside.

Henry cast a look around. "You look the part a man vexed. Weird for you."

Watson shrugged, kicking at the pile of Sunday newsprint he'd dissected. One quarter of the pile had been converted into paper hats, ships, and a small crane. Completing a task with no end in sight could be a real bitch. "What can I say? I'm a man of action, not a search engine."

"What exactly are you searching for?" Henry inquired, admiring the handiwork of the crane. "A good shag? Sure looks like you need one, if you've resorted to folding paper birds to keep you company."

"You offering? One look at your hairy arse and I'll join the monastery. My problems will be solved." Watson took a section that had been craftily converted into an oriental fan and waved it seductively. To his monstrous amusement, Henry actually blushed before snatching the fan, crumpling it into a ball and bouncing it lightly off his friend's forehead. "Seriously," the military man grumped to hide his embarrassment. "Watcha looking for?"

"A roommate. Again, you offering?"

"Actually… yeah." Watson blinked. "There's this bloke that I see every couple days or so at the university. Apparently he blew up some stiff place like Oxford, and now he's been pawned off on us. He was complaining just the other day about needing some unfortunate soul to split rent. It's your lucky day: that sap can be you."

"Sounds good." Watson ignored the jab.

"You sure? He's every bit as odd as Hannibal Lector, if not quite so hungry."

"I'll take my chances as long as he won't try to kill me in my sleep."

"I'll make no promises."

///

Over the course of a lunch that took several hours and was filled with a little more booze and a lot more raunchy conversation than was necessary, Watson managed to discover a good bit about what had gone on in his friend's life since they'd last met. Apparently the op. that had put a bullet in Watson's shoulder at the tender age of twenty had been the most exciting thing to take place for the fresh, green recruits in their group. The rest was sand, smoke, and history. Two of the group were married now, though, so that was interesting, and Stamford had a new boyfriend who was apparently a real toppy bastard (Watson was beginning to recall how being a soldier made one privy to all sorts of unnecessary personal information).

He also learned a bit about the man whom, if things worked out, he would be living with: A real strange bird; blows up things just to put them back together again; talks to no one unless to dictate a discovery; obviously a cokehead, and one constantly on the verge of a dimension where a man can smell colors if he listens hard enough. Rather than becoming discouraged, however, Watson began to feel more and more like he needed to meet this Sherlock Holmes.

Besides, their cohabitation need only be for about six months. By that point, Henry assured him, a lesser man's tolerance and sanity would have long run out, and Watson would probably never set eyes on Holmes again.

///

AN: Not much happening in this chapter, though that's sure to change by the next.


End file.
